


When You Like, and Where You Like

by canarypaper



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-17
Updated: 2011-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:52:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canarypaper/pseuds/canarypaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It is messy and it is beautiful."</p><p>Post "Game of Shadows". Spoilers for the entire film.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Like, and Where You Like

**Author's Note:**

> This is 1,335 words of filthy, filthy smut with surprisingly tender plot. I had to write it after seeing "A Game of Shadows". I should also add that I have blatantly lifted certain bits of dialogue from the canon story, "The Empty House". Enjoy!

It is messy and it is beautiful.

Their lips are barely touching, mouths opened wide, panting. They breathe each other’s breath, gasping in the humidity between their bodies. Watson’s arms curl firmly around Holmes’ sweat drenched back, holding him firmly in place on his lap as he thrusts up into his tight heat.

Holmes curls one hand around Watson’s bicep, the other dragging a thumb across Watson’s lip. He pulls it away, slick with saliva, and sucks it into his own mouth. Watson groans, cock twitching deep in Holmes’ body, leaning forward for a filthy open mouthed kiss.

Holmes rides Watson, steadily, slowly, dragging out each upward movement, sliding down agonizingly slow, his breaths short from the choking hold Watson has on his torso.

This is their first time.

It had been a near thing in the gypsy camp, all those months ago. Watson had been outrageously drunk and Holmes’ body was moving of its own volition. The wild scrape of the fiddle, the staccato thrumming of their hearts. Watson danced in the firelight, shirt opened, hanging brazenly off of one shoulder. He found Holmes, grabbed him by the hips, sunk sharp teeth into the juncture between neck and shoulder, licked hot strokes over his skin.

And Holmes wanted, desperately, desperately wanted.

But he turned away and forcefully pushed Watson back into the fray of dancing gypsies. Watched embers float into the night sky and fade away.

He could not take from Watson something that the other man would never willingly give.

He loved him far too much for that.

Watson’s hips stutter and Holmes sucks in a breath. Holds it. He feels Watson tensing beneath him, trying to control himself, willing himself not to come. Not yet.

Their movement halts, and they simply look at each other. Revel in the feel of their bodies inextricably linked.

Their eyes meet and lock. Every emotion that is beyond even Holmes’ extensive and colorful vocabulary is there, naked between them.

The night on the balcony hits Holmes’ like a wave. He remembers Watson had opened the door, and their eyes met, the briefest of connections, the most heartfelt goodbye Holmes thought he could ever have managed. And when he closed his eyes, all the way down to the frigid, roaring water below, all he saw was Watson’s eyes.

All he could feel in the violence of those final moments was peace.

Holmes’ cock is red and drooling steadily down his belly, but he refuses to touch himself. They want this to last as long as possible. Forever. They are connected now, and Holmes never wants to let go.

Their breathing is heavy, hot puffs of air against their mouths.

Watson pushes two fingers into Holmes’ mouth, and Holmes groans. He sucks, and sucks, saliva coating those fingers, dripping down his chin. Watson watches, pupils blown wide, mouth slack. His chest heaves.

Their bodies remain still, the only movement is Watson’s chest and Holmes’ tongue.

Holmes wonders, eyes sliding shut and a deep, guttural groan escaping him, how long they can stay like this? Completely still, completely aroused, burning for it but drawing it out.

They have done it for years, he realizes, stayed in close proximity only to infuriate and torment each other with want, but never taking. His eyes fly open as Watson gives a violent thrust. All of the air leaves his lungs and his back arches, his neck falls back, and he is moaning.

In the months he was gone, the world thinking him dead, he tried to tell himself Watson would be better off without him. Better off without his constant distraction and disappointment. Better off with his beautiful, kind-hearted wife. Better off with a normal life, free from dangers. Free from madmen and their personal wars.

Free from Sherlock Holmes.

But he could not stay away. He was inexplicably drawn back to this man, this stalwart, brave, worthy man who saw him for what he was. Not a tool, not an unfeeling machine, but a deeply lonely man who was afraid of dying alone.

So he returned to London after finishing off the rest of Moriarty’s tangled web of violence and death. Except for Moran. Moran, the last, clinging thread of spider silk that Holmes would have to outwit.

But first there was Watson.

When he sent the doctor an anonymous invitation back to Baker Street, he knew everything would be changed. When Watson walked into their old rooms, seeing that nothing had been touched, Holmes knew there would be no going back from this.

“My dear Watson,” Holmes had said, not even trying for levity, not this time, “I owe you a thousand apologies.”

And Watson had staggered toward him, gripped him by the arms, and both of them fell to their knees in the middle of the sitting room.

When they embraced, there were no tears, no hysterical laughter, only a thick silence and heavy, choked breaths. And then Watson was devouring him whole. Mouth locked over his own, breathing the very life out of Holmes’ lungs.

They begin to move again. Watson, groaning loudly, hips beginning to piston sharply, fingernails sinking into Holmes’ hips as if to make sure he does not disappear again.

Holmes holds on, one hand snaking down to squeeze Waston’s nipple, dragging his nails down his chest. Watson slips a hand down Holmes’ back, slips down to feel where their bodies join. It is slick there and he teases the already stretch hole with two fingers, gasping in a breath before asking Holmes, “Can you?”

Holmes shudders. “Anything,” he hisses. “Anything.”

Those two fingers join Watson’s cock and they both moan.

Holmes’ heart is beating wildly now, he feels disoriented, hot and freezing and euphoric. “John, John,” he whispers, eyes screwing shut. He rubs his cock against Watson’s abdomen, and he begins to clench, muscles spasming.

“Yes,” Watson groans against Holmes’ neck. “Come on.”

“Ah- ah,” Holmes huffs, shoving himself down against Watson’s hand and cock, thrusting his own cock against Watson’s body.

“Now,” Watson gasps. “God, now-“

And Holmes cannot deny Watson anything, not anymore. He comes, screaming with it, body spasming beyond his control.

He feels Watson tense up, back going ramrod straight and face scrunched up in beautiful agony as he spills inside Holmes’ body.

Their hips twitch against eachother for several moments as they gasp for all of the air which seems to have left the room.

After a moment, Holmes collapses against Watson’s chest, lethargic and heavy. Watson pulls out of Holmes’ body and lays them both down on the floor. He slides his fingers back into Holmes’ body, causing the man to gasp, overstimulated. Watson smiles, lazy thrusting those fingers in and out.

“To think that you – you of all men – should be laying with me,” Watson whispers against Holmes’ stubbled cheek, voice thick with emotion.

“I had no idea you would be so affected,” Holmes’ answers, a bit of his old sarcasm seeping back.

Watson chuckles, kissing Holmes’ brow, his temple. “I am overjoyed to see you.” He pulls his fingers away from Holmes, runs them down his thigh, down his leg, following them with his lips. He stops over Holmes’ ankle, kissing where he had pulled the gastly splinter of wood during their fight in the woods with Moran and Simza. It has healed nicely.

The sun is setting outside, and they stay there, lying together. They listen to the sound of the other breathing. Of the very real heartbeats in their bodies.

“There is a hard and dangerous night’s work in front of us, Watson,” Holmes says, sitting up and running a hand over Watson’s hair, stopping to curl around his cheek. “Moran knows I’m alive. You’ll come with me tonight?”

The fading sunlight catches like fire in Watson’s eyes as he leans up, stealing Holmes’ lips in a searing kiss. He pulls back, leaning their heads together.

“When you like, and where you like.”

In that moment, Sherlock Holmes knows that he will never be alone again.


End file.
